


Nice Work If You Can Get It

by HolyCatsAndRabbits



Series: Guardian Angel [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Arguing, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Established Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Good-natured Arguing, Humor, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Aziraphale (Good Omens), Possessive Crowley (Good Omens), Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens), and a whole lot of demonic temptation, embarrassing amounts of angelic flowers, overwhelming angelic love, ridiculous arguments, silliness, this is what they're like when they're together folks, unexpected wardrobe changes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 13:20:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolyCatsAndRabbits/pseuds/HolyCatsAndRabbits
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley enjoy having one of their increasingly ridiculous arguments and absolutely do not make fools of themselves in front of Death (again).  This is the first of 3 small follow-up pieces to "Stranger in Paradise.""Fall in love, you won't regret itThat's the best work of all, if you can get it."





	Nice Work If You Can Get It

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on this series:
> 
> "Stranger is Paradise" is my version of how Aziraphale and Crowley finally got together, after the show’s events ended. It’s meant to be read first, but this could probably work as a stand-alone as well.
> 
> Series info: The TV show is canon except that 1) Aziraphale is the Angel of Compassion; and 2) when angels and demons touch, the lower-ranking one bursts into flames (Hellfire for angels or Heavenfire for demons). Aziraphale outranks Crowley, being a Principality, but Aziraphale’s touch doesn’t harm him, and in fact, Aziraphale can heal Crowley if he is injured.
> 
> Titles of these last 3 fics are from Gershwin songs. ["Nice Work If You Can Get It" sung by Ella Fitzgerald](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vu0JjhbaVbE).  
[Lyrics](https://www.themusicallyrics.com/n/249-nice-work-if-you-can-get-it-the-musical-lyrics/1851-nice-work-if-you-can-get-it-lyrics.html)
> 
> And as always, if anyone wants to do any art of my fics, I would love it!

The sun had been up for about a half hour, but you could hardly tell, because the day was so grey. Rain had fallen at times during the night, and the storm was lingering. The angel had been sitting up reading in bed, but when the ethereal message started to come through, he set his book down to focus on it. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if that movement or maybe some change in his aura gave away what was happening, but the demon stretched out by his side woke up enough to fling his arm over the angel’s lap. Stifling a yawn against Aziraphale’s thigh, Crowley burrowed his hand under the angel’s blue-striped pajama top and pressed his palm gently over his heart. With the addition of Crowley’s half-awake demonic energy flowing into the angel, the message became clearer.

“Where are we going?” Crowley mumbled. “Please say somewhere warm.”

That was a perfectly good question, but Aziraphale was not actually capable of answering at the moment, being much too caught up in watching the grey of the morning being burned away by the rich, red-velvet aura that was now melting into him.

About six months ago, Aziraphale and Crowley had finally made their way from being lovesick fools to lovers (well, more like fools in love, probably). And one thing that Aziraphale had learned in those six months was that the most pleasurable experience in the world—better than music, food, or books—was touching Crowley.

They’d touched so rarely before this, both of them afraid to risk it. But it had happened occasionally, love winning over fear. The highlight had been one snowy night in 1816, when the (quite unfairly seductive) demon had pressed Aziraphale beneath him on a couch and had given the angel his first ever kiss. It had been _ perfect _ . A slow, sweet, deeply romantic worshiping at Aziraphale’s mouth that had made the poor angel quite literally see stars (no doubt the ones that Crowley had helped to create). They hadn’t been so brave again for another two hundred years after that, but now Aziraphale knew what it was like to kiss Crowley and to _ keep kissing _ Crowley and _ oh. _ To be held in Crowley’s arms, to be touched so sweetly but at the same time ravenously, to be opened and breathed into—

But there were endless ways to touch him. Holding hands, cuddling on the couch or in bed, making love, of course, kissing, and then there was this, the melding of their auras that helped Aziraphale be the Guardian Angel that he was meant to be. The angel needed the demon to help him read his ethereal messages and to keep him safe when he answered them. It was ironic and glorious and ineffable and perfect and _ divine _. Surely there had never been a greater purpose to angelic love than to care for this beautiful demonic soul that had somehow, improbably but inescapably, found its mate in Aziraphale.

And that was the true pleasure, of course. It wasn’t the physical part at all. The real joy of touching Crowley came from knowing that Crowley understood that his embrace, his kiss, his demonic energy flowing into Aziraphale was _ welcomed _, to know that Aziraphale treasured it. For Crowley to finally know that he was loved for exactly who and what he was.

Naturally, such thoughts from the angel caused flowers to twine around the bedposts. They’d actually installed bedposts on Aziraphale’s bed, as well as trellises all over the shop downstairs, to give the inevitable flowers somewhere to go, as it was rather impractical to have them covering the floor all the time. (If Aziraphale manifested actual flowering bushes and trees, those tended to spring up outdoors, but blossoms on their own could appear pretty much anywhere.) As the perfume of the new flowers filled the room, Crowley, with his eyes still closed, murmured, “Lilacs, is it? Those are nice.”

Aziraphale traced a hand along Crowley’s arm, grounding himself a little bit, and then he was able to say, “There’s a hurricane due in Florida.”

“Oh, a hurricane, that's good," said the demon, without a trace of sarcasm. "That blizzard last week in Canada was nearly the death of me.”

Aziraphale huffed quietly. It had certainly _ not _ nearly been the death of the demon, Aziraphale had ensconced his beloved cold-blooded Serpent in a protective aura that had functioned as a sort of angelic mobile greenhouse that never let Crowley’s personal environment fall below eighty degrees.

Even now, although Crowley did feel quite comfortably warm to Aziraphale, it was still rainy, with some wind, so Aziraphale turned his internal angelic temperature up a bit and let a little more heat seep into the demon. In response, Crowley did two things that he would never admit to—he sighed fondly and he _ snuggled _. Aziraphale combed his fingers through Crowley’s scarlet hair as the demon’s head came to rest against his hip.

That didn’t distract the demon well enough, unfortunately. “What’s bothering you?” Crowley asked.

“Nothing.”

“Mmmm…” Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s hum vibrating against his leg. “I’m going to give that one a three out of ten. Somewhat plausible, but only because I haven’t had my coffee yet. Good try, though. Keep practicing.”

“You’re impossible,” Aziraphale informed him.

Crowley didn’t contradict him, he just performed a slow, graceful stretch that ended with almost his entire body slinking snake-like over the angel’s lap. Aziraphale, with his arms wondrously full of his best friend, said hesitantly, “Crowley, when we go to Florida, I—I don’t want you to take your shirt off.”

Crowley’s golden eyes opened and he looked up at the angel for the first time. “My shirt’s off now.” Crowley was, in fact, wearing nothing but a pair of black silk shorts (per Aziraphale’s ord—ah, _ request _).

“Yes. Well. That’s here. I don’t want you to take your shirt off...in front of other people.”

Crowley broke into a grin and asked, “Why?” even though it was obvious from the delight in his voice that he knew the answer. Aziraphale just frowned at him.

“Angel, it’s the beach. You’re expected to take your shirt off. Besides, people going through a hurricane, they need a little distraction, something nice to look at. It would be heartless of me to deny them that, don’t you think?”

Aziraphale made a little growling noise and Crowley laughed, sliding Aziraphale’s pajama shirt aside a little to press a few kisses against the angel’s stomach. “Is it bad that I love you being jealous?” the demon asked. “It’s probably a sin for one of us.”

“It’s not a sin to be in love,” Aziraphale said automatically.

Crowley grinned up at him again. “Are you in love, angel?”

Aziraphale knew he was giving Crowley what was probably a very sappy smile. “Oh, darling,” he whispered, tracing a hand along the side of Crowley’s beautiful face. “You know how much I tolerate you.”

Crowley snorted out a laugh. “Oh, you tolerate me?”

“For now.”

With a sudden, serpentine quickness, Crowley came up to his knees on either side of Aziraphale’s legs and yanked the angel down in the bed so that he was lying fully beneath him. “You,” Crowley said, looming over him, golden eyes ablaze in the early morning light, flame-colored hair a bed-rumpled mess, “are the worst angel in the history of angels.”

“I’m well aware of that, my love,” Aziraphale answered, and then Crowley finally pressed his mouth against Aziraphale’s, kissing him with talent, and patience, and hunger, and love, and the angel treasured it all as the gift that it was.

When Crowley pulled back, Aziraphale smiled up at him again, and then unceremoniously shoved the demon’s body to the side and stood up. “Well, we need to be there in a couple of hours. I should get breakfast—”

Aziraphale was back on the bed with Crowley on top of him again before the angel quite knew what had happened. Aziraphale looked up at him with delight. “Yes?”

“If you don’t mind,” said the shirtless demon above him, “I’d like to give you a reason to tolerate me a little longer.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said happily.

Crowley repeated it mockingly, waggling his head back and forth. “_ Oh, that sounds lovely. _” Aziraphale just waited patiently for another kiss, but he must have made it too plain what he wanted, because Crowley ignored the angel’s mouth and instead pulled aside the waistband of Aziraphale’s striped trousers to press a bite to a ticklish spot on the angel's hip. Aziraphale shrieked and smacked Crowley lightly on the head.

With his mouth muffled against Aziraphale’s stomach, the demon complained, “Angel of Compassion’s not supposed to hit people.”

“Well, you must be very special, then.”

oOo

Florida was hot, windy, and noisy, but Crowley vastly preferred it to the dreary London day they’d left behind. He and Aziraphale had miracled themselves to a grassy area overlooking a beach and a gray and restless sea. The angel and demon wore their own versions of casual clothes, which for Crowley was ripped jeans and a t-shirt (which he had dutifully left on—so far) and for Aziraphale white linen trousers with a white button-up and blue bowtie, which made him look as marvelously ridiculous as ever.

Behind them was the town, which was not as deserted as Crowley had hoped. The storm was due in a couple of hours and there were still people here that could use help sandbagging and loading cars and covering windows with boards. Crowley started a list in his head of the humans’ needs while keeping a watch over Aziraphale reading the signs of the coming storm.

It wasn’t that the Guardian Angel of the Earth wasn’t strong enough to take on his own ethereal missions (and even if he hadn’t been, the addition of Crowley’s fairly minor allotment of occult strength wouldn’t make much of a difference). Ability-wise, Aziraphale was fine. In fact, although his new powers certainly weren't endless, Crowley suspected that Aziraphale might actually be the most powerful supernatural being in creation at the moment (other than Death), seeing as how the angel had fairly easily defeated one of the other Horsepeople.

No, Crowley went with Aziraphale on these missions because, well—the kindest way that Crowley could put it was that the angel was distractible. (What he really wanted to say was that Aziraphale did not have the sense that God gave a pink plastic flamingo.) When Aziraphale got focused on something, whether it be a hurricane, a person in trouble, or a plate of crepes, the angel would lose his situational awareness and wander directly into trouble, and it was Crowley’s job to lead him back out of it.

It was, in Crowley’s opinion, the best job in the universe, although, of course, he would never let on about that.

Aziraphale was frowning as he looked over the ocean. “This one feels heavy, love.”

“So we’re going for a partial victory, then?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s a Category 4 now, and I think it’s going to strengthen from there.”

“Probably why you got the message on this one. You know, you’re going to do a lot of good, angel,” Crowley assured him, and got one of those joyously fond smiles in return.

Surely other people loved each other as intensely as Crowley and Aziraphale did, whether romantically or not, the universe wouldn’t have much reason to exist otherwise (it may have been odd for a demon to think that way, but Crowley wasn’t in the habit of soliciting anyone else’s opinion on his opinions). The angel and the demon had actually been in love almost from the start, but they’d had to keep their feelings hidden, even from each other. So now Crowley was learning that it was quite a thing to have the Angel of Compassion _ openly _ in love with you. 

Aziraphale was—well, he was capable of being extremely demonstrative of his love. Actually, it was more like he was incapable of _ not _ being extremely demonstrative of his love. Aziraphale’s love for Crowley made the angel glow, manifest flowers, and give off enough angelic warmth to heat the entire neighborhood (occasionally he even accidentally pulled the local weather along with him, clearing skies or bringing rain showers during a dry spell). And that was when he wasn’t trying to be showy.

When Aziraphale wanted to show Crowley that he was loved, to focus all of that devotion specifically on his demon, that sometimes took on the form of lost weekends during which Crowley lost his mind. He wasn’t actually sure they were just weekends and not weeks of an angel sweet-talking a demon into letting himself be adored, cherished, and worshiped, in bed and otherwise. It could be less intense than that, too (thank Heavens). There were plenty of long cozy afternoons where an angel read love poetry aloud to the demon whose head rested on his lap, and there were nights spent under the open skies with an angel asking a demon all about the stars he'd helped create. And then when Aziraphale was particularly taken with the romance of a line of poetry or celestial creation, he would coax Crowley close for kisses and then just beam at him in a blinding sort of way, so happy to be able to share with someone all the love that the Angel of Compassion was able to feel.

It was overwhelming, and it absolutely needed to be. Crowley hadn’t quite realized how tragic things had been for Aziraphale before this, how painful it had been to the angel that almost all the love that he had felt over the last six thousand years had been the hidden, muted adoration of his best friend. Crowley was a demon, he hadn’t expected to be loved after being cast away. Aziraphale, a being of endless love, had been forced to teach himself not to expect it.

It was quite obvious to Crowley now that what the Angel of Compassion had always needed more than anything was not simply to be loved, but to be hopelessly, desperately_ in love _with someone who returned his feelings just as strongly. And the crazy thing was that somehow Crowley, a creature who had long since exchanged his angelic form for that of a serpent, could make this loveliest of angels literally glow with joy. When he was in Aziraphale’s arms, Crowley felt like a treasure. He was definitely not sure he should feel like that, but there was no way that he was going to fight it because Aziraphale deserved this, more than anyone else, the angel who delighted in the whole of creation deserved to find a love beyond all measure. And if Crowley was what he wanted, then Crowley would worship at the altar of Aziraphale until the end of time, and feel privileged to do so.

Crowley couldn’t be quite as showy as Aziraphale with his feelings. But as the Tempter of the Garden, he did have his own demonic abilities to fall back on. (There was definitely a kind of ineffable irony in the fact that the Serpent of Eden and the angelic Guard of its Eastern Gate—enemies by design—had fallen for each other like a couple of graceless idiots, and probably within a few hours of their first meeting on the Garden wall.)

Sometimes Crowley’s attentions to the angel took the form of an easy flirtation of a kind that he had actually been performing for thousands of years—dates to restaurants and shows, wine and chocolates, old books and other gifts. Anything that might possibly make Aziraphale smile at Crowley, because how quickly the poor demon had become addicted to feeling Aziraphale’s angelic happiness directed his way.

But now there could also be the enticement of the physical contact that Aziraphale craved and that they had for so long denied themselves. A kiss to the white curls on top of his head, Crowley’s arm around his shoulder, holding hands in the park. And other, more seductive touches: a light, maddening trace of Crowley’s fingers against the pulse point in Aziraphale’s wrist, a tiny, intimate kiss to the back of the angel’s neck where Crowley pulled his collar aside.

And if Crowley _ were _ being showy, he could provide the full-strength demonic temptation of a moment of stopped time at the Ritz, during which Crowley would press Aziraphale against a wall, kiss him senseless, whisper erotic promises in his ear, and then delight in leaving the poor, flustered angel to try to catch his breath as time restarted, the demon by his side looking as cool as ever. (Hopefully. The sunglasses helped.) Except of course, that they would also suddenly be surrounded by flowers.

The flowers had really become a thing_ . _ The quite aptly named (for once) _ miraculous flowers of Soho _ were somewhat of a sensation, and people were starting to come to the area to gather blooms that had suddenly appeared wrapped around a lamppost or on the ceiling of a restaurant, quite without needing sunlight, rain, or even roots. According to internet superstition, when given to a sweetheart, the flowers worked miracles in the name of love, especially if that love were star-crossed. Aziraphale was really quite embarrassed by the flowers, but he did find the miracle part terribly sweet (and, of course, although Aziraphale wouldn’t admit it, Crowley knew that the angel hoped the miracles were real). And if the flowers bloomed most abundantly in a certain bookshop in Soho that was run by a lovely queer couple, then that was all right with its proprietor, because the flowers kept people’s attention away from the books.

So now, standing over a Florida beach, with a hurricane on the way, Crowley was treated to a patch of daisies sprouting up around his feet because Aziraphale was smiling at him. 

“Focus, angel,” the demon reminded him with a smirk, as he used a miracle to set up a buffer around the angel to keep the wind from blowing sand into his face.

When Aziraphale returned to his task, Crowley went to make himself useful in town. With a little demonic intervention, people found that filled sandbags were not quite as heavy as they should have been, that nails always went in straight, and that no one felt quite as cranky or hungry as they had a short while ago. It was perhaps somewhat ironic to use demonic powers to help people, but Crowley didn’t see it that way. After all, didn’t being a demon just mean that he was free to use his abilities as he _ damn _ well pleased?

When Aziraphale had finished his planning, he followed Crowley into town. Crowley was passing out bottles of water (reusable, emblazoned with the message _ I hate Florida _. Crowley had meant it as a bit of a prank, but everyone seemed to think it was hilarious, so he began considering himself witty rather than mischievous). But he stopped to watch his angel approach. Aziraphale had been using his powers, and with the skies darkening behind him, he looked far more ethereal than human, his angelic glow radiating around him like the light of a candle that never flickered. Now, as ever, in that glow Aziraphale possessed a supernatural beauty that made it seem as if the whole rest of creation were drawn of shadows.

Humans could see the glow, but at the same time not really be aware that they were seeing it, so it affected them in a way that they would not understand. But affect them it did. A man was running down the street chasing after a little fuzzy black floof of a dog. In a blink, Aziraphale had the errant dog in his arms, and then _ the man _ —who was _ shirtless _ —gave Aziraphale a _ hug _.

If it hadn’t been for the dog in the man’s arms, the _ hugger _ would have found himself flat on his face on the pavement. Crowley stalked over to the angel, glowering at the man’s retreating form. 

“You’ve left your lights on,” he snapped.

Aziraphale looked down at himself without any great surprise. “Happens, my love.”

“Yes, but it makes people notice you.”

“Well—”

“It makes people want to _hug_ _you_ when you’re like that.”

Of course, Crowley had been a little too obvious. Aziraphale made an unsuccessful effort to hide a delighted smirk, and then said, much too proudly, “Well, beloved, you know, people going through a hurricane, they need a little distraction, something nice. And I do give very comforting hugs. Wouldn’t it be heartless of me to deny them that?”

Crowley groaned. “Oh, for—we’re here to work, Aziraphale, we are not having one of our arguments now.”

They were, of course, most definitely having one of their arguments now.

When the angel miracled a stalled car into starting, he received no less than three hugs. And he accepted them while smiling at Crowley.

Crowley, of course, took his shirt off. That wiped the smile from the angel’s face. Well, mostly. Aziraphale was really rubbish at this game.

Humans did tend to find Crowley attractive (maybe not as attractive as Aziraphale did—the angel was convinced that Crowley was the most glorious thing in all of creation, and while that was a lovely thought, and Crowley certainly encouraged it, the truth was really just that the Angel of Compassion had a little trouble feeling anything halfway). But even in the midst of hurricane preparations, a shirtless Crowley did attract some attention. He may or may not have encouraged it by lifting a few heavy things by hand rather than using miracles.

He knew that he had gone far enough when he felt a mild sting across his chest and discovered that he had been given a very large, very colorful tattoo across his entire torso that read _ Aziraphale _, with lots of pretty hearts surrounding it.

Crowley—who _ was _ very good at this game—managed to give Aziraphale an angry glare. And then it was finally time. Despite his protests, Crowley was well prepared for this argument. He snapped his fingers and carried out a demonic miracle that he had been planning since he heard the words _ I don’t want you to take your shirt off. _

The Guardian Angel of the Earth—likely more powerful than any other angel or demon in creation, not to mention four of the five Horsepeople, now stood on a frantic Florida street wearing a pair of rainbow bermuda shorts, yellow knee socks with pink sandals, and no shirt, his chest branded with a tattoo that said _I love_ _Crowley _in letters made of snakes.

Aziraphale, of course, made the whole thing worse for himself by dissolving into giggles and sinking back onto a wall of sandbags, right in everyone’s way. He tried to glare back at Crowley and was not remotely successful. It took him a minute to say something, but he finally managed. “Crowley, how long have we been together?”

Crowley looked at him with surprise. “You’re going there already? We just got started.”

Aziraphale hiccupped out another laugh. "No, my love, for the tattoo." He gestured at Crowley’s torso.

“Oh.” The demon reached out a hand to the angel and pulled him back onto his feet. They started helping to load the last few cars. "Well, we did say Syria, I think. When we were talking to Death.” 

“I feel like it was earlier than that, though,” Aziraphale said, as he handed Crowley a box of photo albums.

“Well, when was the first time you did the flowers?”

Aziraphale flushed even beyond what the laughter had done to him. “Oh. Well. Those were there on and off from the beginning, actually.”

Crowley grinned. “Were they?”

Aziraphale gave him a genuinely cross look now. “Don't be smug.”

“I'm a demon, I'll be smug if I want to.” He tossed the angel a backpack with a few snacks inside and saw that when Aziraphale loaded the pack into the car, it was completely full of food.

“Well, the flowers started happening regularly during that two weeks we spent in Egypt,” the angel told him. “I didn’t realize what they meant at the time—anyway, I tried not to—but being that close to you for so long—”

“Oh, I definitely remember that trip,” Crowley said fondly. He was loading a pet carrier now and used some demonic energy to gently calm the frightened cats inside. “Angel, we need to do that again. You and me, a week in Cairo, a trip down the Nile—”

Aziraphale gave him a delighted smile.

“So when was that?” Crowley asked.

The last of the cars were leaving now, and Aziraphale started to focus on checking sand bag walls. “Around 2850 BC?” he asked. “2870 maybe?”

“Sounds right.”

“But did we have a date before that?”

“Hang on, angel.” With a roll of his shoulders, Crowley manifested his wings and flew into the air for a better view of the town. It was hard to hover well with the wind so powerful, but Crowley—well, he had an angel to impress. He noted smugly that when he landed, it was in a brand-new patch of daylilies, beside a still more red-faced Aziraphale. Crowley didn’t bother to hide his smirk. “Hospital with its lights on a couple of miles in. Do we have time?”

Aziraphale extended his hand and the demon took it as he miracled them there. The angel went into the basement to check the generators while Crowley assessed the food and water supplies.

When they met up again, Crowley asked, “Well, what about Mnajdra? Ah, what’s it now—Malta?”

“_ Oh _,” Aziraphale said with a sigh. “That was beautiful. My beloved astronomer.” He traced his fingers lightly over Crowley’s bare shoulder. “You helped them align the temple for the solstices and equinoxes, and you invited me to see. Vernal equinox, I believe.”

Crowley was attempting to hide a proud, somewhat overwhelmed expression. “Well, if I invited you, that sounds like a date.”

Aziraphale smiled beautifully. “That it does.”

“So that was what—3100 BC? Thereabouts?”

With a wave of Aziraphale’s hand, the huge tattoo vanished from Crowley’s torso and was replaced by a much smaller inscription just under his left shoulder that read 

_ Angel _

_ 3-20-3100 _

Crowley followed suit, removing Aziraphale’s giant tattoo and gracing his right pectoral muscle with that date and a replica of Crowley’s snake tattoo under it. But then the demon felt a small sting on his cheek and with a little demonic effort, he conjured up a vision of his own snake tattoo to see that Azirphale had given it a little golden halo.

“Well,” said the angel very earnestly, “You are my guardian angel.”

Crowley rolled his eyes fondly and only realized what he had done when the angel’s mouth fell open.

“Ha! You lost!” Aziraphale exclaimed.

“What? I did not.”

“Yes you did, I changed your snake tattoo and you smiled at me!”

“I didn’t—well, you were smiling too! And laughing!”

Aziraphale managed to look extremely logical when he said, “I’m not saying I won, I’m saying you lost.”

Crowley grasped Azriaphale’s forearms and pulled him close. “Ang—that—okay, that just means we're tied. We need a sudden death round.”

“A sudden what?”

Crowley miracled them back to the beach. The wind had really picked up now, and Crowley put an anti-sand buffer around himself as well. “That's just what it's called, angel. _ Sudden death round _. It means first one to smile or laugh loses.”

“Oh. All right.” Aziraphale put on a brave look.

Crowley snorted. “And in the interest of not having this over immediately, I will let you go first.”

“Well,” said the angel. “Thank you. I suppose.” He frowned at Crowley, looking him up and down. “Your problem is, you are far too attractive.”

“That has _ never _ been a problem.”

“Well, no, but that was back when you were free to—to—”

“Angel.” Crowley wrapped his hand over Aziraphale’s. “You know that I hardly ever—”

“I don’t mind, really,” Aziraphale said, and he wasn’t lying, the angel was a terrible liar, which made living with him very easy. “I actually rather enjoy you knowing what you are doing in the—well, when we—”

Crowley wanted to smile, but he restrained himself to merely raising a suggestive eyebrow.

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “But that was then. You’re taken now.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Well, the rest of the world may not be aware of that, so—let’s make you look a little less desirable, shall we?” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Crowley found himself wearing a blue-striped tank top and shorts, an outfit which was appropriate for a man to wear to the beach, several hundred years ago.

Crowley mustered up an easy glare, not at all tempted to laugh.

Until Aziraphale sighed and complained forlornly, “Oh, dear. It didn’t work.”

Crowley immediately had to make himself think about sitting through an hour-long lecture on how spoons worked. “You have exactly the same problem!” he growled at the angel. “You’re gorgeous.”

“Oh, well, I’m—”

“Excuse you, is it your turn?”

Aziraphale huffed at him. Crowley circled the angel, as he very much enjoyed doing, sizing him up. Aziraphale was already a quite heady mix of ridiculous and delicious in his rainbow shorts and so little else. Soft, warm...Crowley was getting distracted. He waved a hand to complete Aziraphale’s look: the angel’s white curls turned bright blue, and his face was now covered in white paint, with a large red nose, and a red painted mouth, which was smiling. That smile didn’t count for losing the game, it was just that Aziraphale would have made a terrible sad clown.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale hissed, now frowning and grinning at the same time.

“Look at you, you’re ready for the circus. I should miracle you some balloons.”

The angel’s eyes lit up with a delighted kind of glare. “Oh, I can do that myself!” The angel snapped his fingers and Crowley’s striped costume turned into a skin-tight purple leotard, with a clutch of large purple balloons attached to his torso.

“I’m...a bunch of grapes,” Crowley said with a slightly trembling voice.

“Saw it on a child on Halloween,” the angel said, his enormous red lips wavering.

For a moment, they faced off. Then Crowley made a great effort to saunter forward across the sand, in the wind, with a bunch of balloons riding his hips. By the look on Aziraphale’s face, it was not the most graceful moment of his life. When Crowley got close enough, he put his hand on Aziraphale’s big red clown nose, and squeezed.

A _ squeak _ echoed across the empty beach.

Aziraphale breathed very deeply, averting his eyes from Crowley’s. His face rippled. Crowley bit his lips and rode out some shudders in his shoulders. And then Aziraphale gasped, “Sudden death!”

“No! That was not a laugh! And you were—”

“No, no, no. I mean_ sudden _ ... _ Death. _”

And he did too, when Crowley turned around there was _ Death _, the Horseperson, standing on the beach in his black robes, beside Aziraphale the shirtless clown and Crowley the bunch of purple grapes.

Crowley burst out laughing, fortunately at the exact same time that Aziraphale did. But when Crowley’s brain quite unhelpfully pointed out that they were literally _ laughing in the face of Death _, the demon collapsed, sinking down to the sand. Three balloons popped.

It only ended when Crowley felt a rush of angelic magic and found himself in his jeans and t-shirt again. Aziraphale extended a hand to help him up, back to normal himself, in white robe and sandals.

Crowley attempted to say something. “We—we were—”

“We're still idiots,” Aziraphale told Death. “I assume you didn’t expect otherwise. We’re just happier now.” He smiled at Crowley. “Are you heading to the hospital, then?” he asked Death. “Or is there going to be flooding? You know, this really is much nicer now that we are in the habit of chatting.”

Crowley was wondering if he should point out that they weren’t really chatting, because Death hadn’t said anything yet, but the Horseperson finally did answer. “So who won?”

Crowley and Aziraphale blinked at each other. “I believe I did,” the angel said.

“No, you didn’t," Crowley countered. "We both laughed at the same time.”

“Yes, but you fell down. That has to count for something.”

“That is not in the rules, angel, it doesn’t matter if someone falls—”

“I’m just saying, there was a difference in how we handled it, and you—”

They were interrupted by a sort of snorting-laugh sound from Death. “I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have. You guys are just too much fun.”

They were actually ready to be more-or-less competent Guardians by the time it started to rain. Crowley and Aziraphale made a stand on the beach, the Guardian Angel of the Earth between the storm and the town, Crowley always keeping a little demonic energy between the storm and the angel.

Aziraphale manifested his Guardian wings under the black clouds, and the glorious white-silver-gold feathers ruffled crazily in the wind. Aziraphale held his ground, of course, the wind had little power to move him or Crowley if the angel didn’t wish them to be moved, which was the same reason that they were standing in a downpour and constant rush of sea spray but were completely dry.

Crowley spent a moment taking a careful look at Aziraphale’s wings. They were definitely going to need preening after this, he noted with a little rush of anticipation. One of the fun things about the Guardian wings was that Aziraphale couldn’t actually preen them himself, because they were nearly twice his size. They were, in fact, Crowley had learned, large enough to completely cover a pair of lovers.

The way that Crowley had discovered this lovely bit of information was that for some reason—possibly their newness or the level of power associated with them—the Guardian wings were much more sensitive to touch than Aziraphale’s normal wings. Which meant that when Crowley preened them, Aziraphale would get a little hot and bothered. If he got flustered enough—and Crowley was learning exactly how to provoke him to this point—Aziraphale would accidentally ignite his Guardian glow, turning bright white with a blazing golden halo and blue Heavenfire sparks for eyes. (Crowley was still on some level astonished that he could be close—_ quite extremely close _ —to Aziraphale when his body was more or less in flames, without the slightest harm to himself.) And then, being the angel’s best friend, of course, Crowley would offer to find a way to help the angel release all of that tension. Aziraphale had always had a thing for Crowley’s black wings, and now Crowley was greatly enjoying having become intimately familiar with _ both _ sides of that fantasy.

It took Aziraphale smirking at Crowley now to bring him out of his daydream. “Focus, my love,” the angel said, and Crowley felt himself reddening a little.

“I’m focused,” he grumbled. “Are you ready to do this?”

Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley prudently averted his eyes, even behind his sunglasses, as the angel assumed his full Fallen form. The Guardian glow ignited with a scratchy _ pop _ sound and for a moment, the world whited out around Crowley before Aziraphale’s power drew in on itself and consolidated within the corporeal boundaries of the Guardian Angel of the Earth. Aziraphale hovered about three feet off the ground now, a vaguely angel-shaped, golden-haloed star in the midst of a dark, howling storm. Crowley had created many stars during his time in Heaven. Aziraphale was infinitely more beautiful than any of them.

The wind died down a little as soon as Aziraphale started to influence it. The rain lessened too, but the sea fought back, attacking the beach. Thunder started to sound. That wasn’t a good sign, thunder in a hurricane. Aziraphale was right, this storm was going to turn into a monster. Crowley spent a little effort keeping the electrical part at bay.

It was much too loud for them to hear each other now, but Aziraphale spoke gently inside Crowley’s mind. “You know I can be struck by lightning, my love.”

“Not on my watch, you can’t,” Crowley returned immediately, and he felt Aziraphale smile.

“I’m rather made of lightning right now, beloved.”

“Good for you.”

Aziraphale’s amusement spread through them both as Crowley busied himself miracling away some loose pieces of boats and sails as they swept by in the wind, keeping a safe border around the angel. The sea started to come up onto the beach, and Aziraphale moved them to hover a little higher above it.

The town began to flood behind them. Aziraphale pressed back against it. Crowley could feel him relieving the storm of its power, as if the angel could talk the wind into giving up its anger, could convince the sea that it had no grudge against the land. This was always what it felt like when Aziraphale used his powers, whether it be as the Angel of Compassion or the superpowered Guardian. It was never a violent attack against whatever they faced, weather or earthquakes or disease. Aziraphale's influence felt like calm. It felt like peace. Aziraphale was a being of nearly pure love, and from there came all his strength.

Why the Hell no other angel was like that, Crowley would never know. He’d thought that was supposed to be the recipe.

The sea rose a little higher, and Crowley was the one to move them up this time, because Aziraphale had failed to notice that. More streets flooded, and houses and stores began to lose their roofs to the wind. Crowley kept the flying pieces far away from them. But the angel’s concentration was paying off. The storm had begun to falter now, stumbling a little, collapsing.

When the sea pulled back into itself and the wind began to whisper instead of scream, Crowley checked Aziraphale for exhaustion, and found that the angel was quite tired, but not dangerously so. The angel spoke in Crowley’s head again. “My love, we need to go to the shelter in the stadium.”

Crowley knew what that meant, and he gently took the angel’s hand, miracling them into the town. The stadium had withstood the wind and flooding, but it had lost power and was stiflingly hot and very dark, lit only by gray light coming through the windows and the tiny flashes of hundreds of cell phone lights. It was extremely crowded with frightened people.

Aziraphale unmanifested his Guardian wings and extinguished the Heavenfire that surrounded him, leaving him as just the human-like, faintly glowing, sweet and peaceful Angel of Compassion. Crowley felt comfortable enough with the situation to let Aziraphale work on his own for a few minutes so that Crowley could see to the power. He was tired as well, but he was able to miracle up a few generators. The lights came back on and Crowley made a round of the refrigerators, taking the time to check food and medication for spoilage. (He may or may not have created a freezer full of popsicles, and if he had, then it was purely because he didn’t want to listen to so many crying children.)

When Crowley returned to the stadium floor, it was easy to pick out Aziraphale by his glow. But Crowley could also sense Death, standing high up in the bleachers. His presence was what had called Aziraphale here.

The angel was sitting on the floor chatting with people around him, but he was holding an elderly lady gently cradled in his arms, and she didn’t look well. Aziraphale beckoned to Crowley, and the demon sat down beside him. To his surprise, Aziraphale carefully passed the lady over. “My love, this is Jasmine. The stress has been a bit much for her. I’m needed across the way, but Death will be by for her in a moment.”

Crowley stared at Aziraphale in surprise. “Angel, I’ve never—”

Aziraphale gave him a soft, incredibly fond look, and traced a finger against the snake tattoo on Crowley's cheek. “You do have a halo, beloved.”

Crowley looked down at the lady in his arms. She wasn’t really awake, but Crowley could feel some unease in her. It was, in fact, rather instinctual for him to want to soothe her, to hold her a little closer.

“Okay?” Aziraphale asked, and Crowley found himself nodding. Aziraphale kissed him lightly on the head before moving on.

Crowley wasn’t sure if Jasmine could hear him or not, but he found himself talking to her gently anyway. “It’s very pretty up there. I know it’s a big change, but it won’t hurt, and I can tell there are people waiting for you.”

Crowley looked up to find Death standing in front of him, and he carefully got to his feet to pass Jasmine over to the Horseperson. The lady startled just a bit during the transfer, and Crowley quickly put a hand on her arm, willing calm into her. There was only one thing to say at this point, and the demon couldn’t help smiling as he said it, that old angelic standard: “Don’t be afraid.” And apparently those words had the same power even when spoken by a demon, because Jasmine passed over to Death peacefully.

It was still raining lightly when they left the stadium, and Crowley found himself beneath the shelter of a white wing as they walked. They ended up in a park, and after miracling a patch of grass dry, Crowley let himself collapse to the ground again, this time without the laughter. Aziraphale laid down beside him, just as exhausted.

“You know,” Crowley said, “there is a much simpler way to deal with this.” He grasped Aziraphale’s left hand and held it up so the angel could see a ring appear on his fourth finger, crimson with a pattern of black scales.

“Oh!” Aziraphale exclaimed. “My love, it’s so beautiful.” 

A moment later, Crowley found himself also wearing a ring, this one a pure gold that very gently glowed.

“Here’s a question, angel,” Crowley said, clutching Aziraphale’s hand tightly, ring against ring.

“Hmm?”

“How long have we been _ married _?”

Aziraphale drew in his breath. “Oh, dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley’s dialogue after they get together is exactly how my husband and I talk to each other.
> 
> [Mnajdra](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mnajdra)  
  
So this fic ties up one of three loose ends left after "Stranger in Paradise": the boys get married. <3  
"Loving one who loves you  
And then taking that vow  
It's nice work if you can get it."
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! This series has now been completed, so please enjoy the next two works! And please feel free to check out my other Good Omens fics. Comments and kudos are so appreciated!
> 
> Find me on tumblr [HolyCatsAndRabbits](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/holycatsandrabbits)  
Twitter [@DannyeChase](https://twitter.com/DannyeChase)  
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